


The Piper Dreams

by Atlas2017



Category: The Omen (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21562483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlas2017/pseuds/Atlas2017
Summary: After a terrifying confrontation with Damien, Mark Thorn awakens thousands of miles from home, not suspecting he’s awakening from a lot more than an unexpected nap.
Relationships: Damien Thorn/Mark Thorn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

The piper dreamed.

A "pipe dream" was a dream one had while smoking an opium pipe—wild, fanciful, impossible. 

Damien wasn't smoking an opium pipe, wasn't smoking a pipe at all. He was just idly toying with a plain, old tobacco pipe, one of his Uncle Richard's. He had found it in a desk drawer while looking for a pencil. Now he'd been staring at it for some time. Why? He wasn't sure. Sentiment? When he and Mark were small, they would climb into Uncle Richard's lap by the fire, while Richard smoked his pipe. Mark had liked the smell of the smoke. Damien had liked the fire.

He'd also liked his Uncle, who had given his life to the cause, however unwittingly. 

Damien supposed he could have got away with smoking—even opium. He could have got away with anything. He wasn't a fan of mind-altering substances, though. His destiny required that he be clear-headed, rational, practical. 

But now he dreamed, wildly, fancifully, impossibly, seated in Richard's old office, in a comfortable, leather chair, dozing, as humans are wont to do.

For all his diabolical origins, Damien was only human. He had dreams—one cherished, human dream in particular. 

***

With the frantic gasp of a diver whose lungs are about to burst, Mark Thorn awoke. He had slept hard, so hard that he didn't remember where he was, or even when he'd gone to sleep. He was not in a bed. He was on his back on a hard, polished surface. It was cold against his shoulder blades, elbows and legs. 

He was naked. He never slept naked. A breeze played over him, cold and dank. Was he outside? How did he get here? He sat up and looked around, eyes widening, trying to focus in the dim light. Only a few candles, lined up on a level with him, lit the space. It looked like—yes, it was—an old church. From its appearance, it hadn't been used in years. He looked down and saw, in the candle light, that he was on an altar. 

Stretched out naked on an altar? His head pounding? Had the boys from school gotten him drunk and dumped him somewhere? They did shit like that. He shook his head, trying to remember anything from before he'd slept. He had been shouting at someone. He'd been scared. 

Damien. 

He'd been shouting at Damien, and Damien had been, what, pleading?

Damien was the Antichrist. 

No, that was silly. It had to be a nightmare, something he'd dreamt while sleeping off the liquor. As he woke up more, it would fade from his memory. He shook his head again, and worked his arms and legs to get his blood moving amidst the cold and damp. The memory did not fade. 

He remembered Damien shouting, begging. Mark was angry and afraid, unable to catch his breath, running. Damien was desperate, his tone shrill, his words promises of love and devotion. 

Then Mark had felt a blinding pain and then nothing. 

Damien had not been near him when the pain struck. Something must have hit him on the head. Maybe a tree branch. But why wasn't he waking up in the woods where he'd fallen? Or at least in his bedroom or a hospital? If he was badly injured, there should be a nurse, or his Mom or Dad, or—

Damien. 

Damien was the Antichrist. He had to be. Charles Warren, director of his Dad's museum, had said so. Something about an ancient relic which showed Damien's face—Yigael's Wall? And all those deaths—Aunt Marion, Bill Atherton, Dr. Pasarian—it seemed unlucky to be around his cousin. Damien had admitted it, hadn't he? He had called himself "Born in the image of the greatest power in the world."

Mark had to get out of this place. He had to find clothing. The only thing available to use as covering was some moth-eaten, red curtains which hung behind the pulpit of the church. After a few tugs, a large section of one ripped free, and Mark tied it into a toga. He would still be seen as a prep school kid who passed out drunk at a toga party and got lost, but he could live with the stereotype, if only he could get home to safety, warn his parents about Damien, put an end to the nightmare. 

The oaken door of the church felt as though it would as soon tear off its hinges as swing open, but it did open onto a foggy, twilit landscape. He saw an old dusty road, an iron fence around a cemetery, crooked hedges, ancient, skeletal trees. He knew this place. He'd been here once, ages ago. He was in the English countryside, near the estate once inhabited by his Uncle Robert. It was the estate where Damien had lived the first few years of his life. And this church, this could only be the place where Uncle Robert had brought Damien to kill him, all those years ago.

Thought to be a raving lunatic, Mark's uncle had been gunned down by police. But Robert Thorn was not a raving lunatic. He was a man trying to save the world from Satan himself, by sacrificing his son.

His  fake son. 

***

Mark spent an uncomfortable hour walking the untraveled road, barefoot, trying to get to a busier thoroughfare. At an intersection with a still-small, but clearly used, road, he stopped and waited. Two cars passed him, ignoring his reluctantly offered thumb. One of them actually sped up. Were there people who were actually afraid of a naked high school kid in a ratty old toga?

Maybe it wasn't that crazy, he reflected. Damien was just a scrawny kid, good-looking, maybe even innocent-looking, if he turned off the arrogant glare. When Damien smiled, he looked like a little boy. When he laughed he was—

He was still the Antichrist. 

A truck pulled to a stop a little past him. Did they call it a 'lorry' here? The driver was a youngish man with a mustache, in work clothes. He leaned out the window and called, "Well, now, you look like you've had an exciting night."

Mark smiled, hoping this guy wasn't some kind of pervert. "Wish I could remember it."

"Your mates dump you here?" asked the driver. 

Mark just nodded. "I could really use a ride to the nearest phone. If I can just make a call, someone will come for me."

The man smiled genially. "Get in. Don't reckon you're hiding anything dangerous under that getup."

"Nothing dangerous about me," muttered Mark. 

***

His benefactor—Edgar, "Call me Gar"—dropped him at the village constable's office. A young trainee smiled sympathetically when he saw the bedraggled American, then cleared his throat and tried to be stern. "Looks like you fell in with the wrong crowd."

"My mates," agreed Mark. "You know."

"Rum go," said the constable. 

Whatever the hell that means, thought Mark. 

"I'll round you up something to wear. Gar said you had someone you could call for a ride?"

"Yes, if I could just use the phone—"

"I'll have to call for you. Procedure. By rights I should ask for your I.D."

Mark held up his hand. "I brought my fingerprints."

"Would I find those on file somewhere?"

"God, I hope not," Mark sighed. After what must have been last night, he wasn't sure. He was sure that, if he told this young man that he had passed out in Chicago and woken up naked in rural England, it would only lead to lots of trouble and even more questions. He wanted to spare his father that publicity. 

"I, uh, really don't want my name to get out."

"Why? You royalty or something?"

"No, nothing like that."  Pretty much exactly like that.  Mark was a modest person, but, well, his Uncle would have been President now, if he had lived. The man who was President had dined at Mark's house more than once. "It's just that my Dad and Mom have gone through enough."

The young man's expression said, "Do go on."

"It's not worth explaining. Could you place a collect call, overseas, to Thorn Industries in Chicago? Office of the President?"

The constable rolled his eyes. "Oh, by all means. And who shall I say is calling?"

The young man's smirk vanished when Mark quietly said, "Tell them it's Mark Thorn."

***

"Look, what you up to?" demanded the constable as Mark emerged, dressed in well-worn P.T. gear that had been found in a retired officer's locker. It fit him only loosely, and he would have preferred underwear.

"What do you mean?" asked Mark. "You told me I could wear these—"

"I'm not talking about the kit, I'm talking about you having me make an overseas call, using a phony name."

"It's not phony. I am Mark Thorn."

"Mark Thorn is dead, mate. Dead and buried a couple years ago." 

Mark felt a chill.  Dead? Why would anyone say—?

"There's some misunderstanding. Who did you talk to?"

"The only misunderstanding is you misunderstanding that we don't take kindly to Yanks on holiday, wasting our time."

"I'm sorry, but I really am Mark Thorn. Look, my picture's been published lots of times. My Dad was interviewed last year in  Forbes.  They—"

"Now look, you—"

The staccato burst of a telephone interrupted the young constable mid-reprimand. He growled for Mark not to move and returned to his desk. Mark couldn't hear the words exchanged—there weren't many. He did see the young man's eyes widen, then narrow to a squint of disbelief, all while looking right at him. 

When the call had ended, Mark ignored orders to stay put and approached the desk. "That was my father, wasn't it?"

The constable looked startled by this question, started to say something, then took a breath. "I dunno what's going on here, but that was the secretary to a Mr. Buher. Says he's the CEO of Thorn."

"He could be," said Mark. "My Dad took leave this Fall because—"

"Says he knows who you are," the constable interrupted. "They're sending a car to collect you." 

"Thank you," Mark said, embarrassed at having been called a liar, but not having the heart to rub it in that he was proved right. 

The constable made a sound of disgust. "Wouldn't be too relieved if I was you. Don't reckon anyone at Thorn's gonna be too happy with you, pretending to be a kid who died. I'll bet you're in for a world of hurt, mate."

***

Paul Buher himself met Mark at Heathrow. Buher greeted him coldly, with a perfunctory handshake. A handsome, competent man, he had always been pleasant with Mark, easygoing, like a laid-back uncle. It was true that Buher seemed to have a special affinity for Damien, but he'd never been distant with Mark. Now it seemed like he was looking over his shoulder every few seconds, afraid he and Mark might be spotted together. 

It wasn't an unrealistic fear, especially here. Europe was lousy with those celebrity-hungry photographers. What did they call them? Paparazzi? Maybe he was afraid that checkout counters the world over would be bedecked with blurry photos and the headline, "Spoiled Thorn brat fakes own death." 

Still, Mark wasn't willing to be ignored. As Buher motioned for him to follow, he asked, "Mr. Buher, I don't understand what's going on. Why—?"

Buher spun and faced him with an expression that silenced all questions, cold and hard. "I'm sure you don't, but now is not the time. I'll tell you everything once we're in the air."

Mark started to protest, but Buher was off toward customs. He shoved a passport into Mark's hands and launched himself like a rocket into the crowd of travelers.

***

On a private Thorn jet, Mark was welcomed by the staff, but something was off. He was accustomed to being addressed by name—"Mark" to employees who knew him, "Mr. Thorn" to the newer ones who didn't. Now he was just "sir," polite and impersonal. He was given a change of clothes that fit, and then seated before a large breakfast. He hadn't had time to think about how hungry he was, and he was hungry. As he tore into a bacon omelet, Buher reappeared and sat across from him. 

"Well, at least no one in Chicago will see me leading around a kid in hand-me-down sweats." Buher said it with a snide touch, like Mark wasn't something he wanted to handle.

Mark decided on blunthonesty. Whatever was going on, Buher would be in the thick of it, as always. "Damien did this, didn't he? He faked my death or something." 

"Your death was not faked, no. I'm sure it's difficult for you to accept, but you did actually die."

"That's impossible. I'm here."

Buher chuckled coldly. "I'm well aware of that. Believe me, it was not my idea."

"My being here, or my being alive?"

"Both."

Mark felt his temper surge. "Okay, look, I don't know what sort of mind games you're playing—"

"This is no game, Mark. You died. A blood vessel in your brain ruptured and you died almost instantly. You were brought back."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter. But you need to understand this: things are going to look different when we return. This is not the world you left. You have no place in it."

He didn't know how to process all of this. It had to be some joke. Damien had convinced Buher to play along, that had to be it. 

Or was it something more sinister? Damien was...who he was. 

"So, what's next?” he askedbitterly. "Are you going to dangle me out the hatch without a parachute? Or just throw me to my death?"

Buher shook his head. "I won't touch you. I can't." 

Whatever that meant, he didn't seem happy about it. 

"Why not?"

"Because your cousin won't allow it."

"I don't want his charity, I want—"

Buher raised his hand, as if he was going to strike Mark. Then, grinding his teeth, he pulled back. "You should be grateful for the gifts you're given."

"A gift? My demonic cousin—who's not even my cousin—orders his goons not to touch me, and—"

"It goes far deeper than that. This isn't an order anyone can disobey. It's a physical impossibility. You're now as invulnerable as he was."

"As who was? Damien? Wait, what do you mean 'was?' Has something happened?"

"Quite a bit has happened while you were...away. If you'll calm down, I'll try to explain."

Mark studied this man. Damien was the Antichrist, he reminded himself again, and Buher was... what? His mentor? His lapdog? Maybe a little of both. He could not trust this man, was not safe with him. Was it even reasonable to believe his claim that no one could physically hurt Mark, even if they wanted to?

Of course it wasn't reasonable, any more than it was reasonable to believe that Damien was the Antichrist. 

Damien. Was. The Antichrist. 

"While I was 'away?'" Mark asked. "Is that what we're calling it? And how long was I supposedly dead?"

"It's been years, Mark."

That jibed with what the constable had claimed, anyway. Of course, the constable could also be on Damien's payroll. "And where was I really?"

"No human knows where we go when we die."

"Come off it, Buher. My death was faked, it—"

Buher leaned in and said, quietly, dangerously,"You were  dead. I saw your body."

"That's insane."

"Bringing you back was insane."

“Come off this bullshit! Why are you here, anyway? Where’s my Dad? I know there's a phone on this plane. I want to talk to my parents. Now."

"That's impossible."

"I don't care! I—"

"Mark, your parents are dead."

Buher said it without sentiment, without warning. It struck Mark like a knife between the ribs, hurting far worse than whatever it was that had happened to him last night—years ago? It couldn't be true. He'd lost his Mom, then found Ann, who'd loved him like he was her own. Then he'd found Damien, and—

Damien was evil.

And this man worked for Damien. "You're lying," said Mark. 

"I'm not. There was an explosion at the Thorn museum. Something went wrong with the boiler. Your parents were killed."

Mark shook his head, resisting a childish urge to cover his ears. "It can't be," he whispered to himself. "It just can't be."

"Denying reality won't make it go away, Mark. Your parents died in an accident—"

"It wasn't an  accident! " Mark almost spat at Buher. "If my parents are dead, then Damien is their murderer."

Buher was silent for a moment, then his mouth turned up at one corner in the faintest mockery of a smile. "Murder is the crime of one human killing another. Damien is above murder." He sighed. "I understand your anger, Mark, but you need to gain control of it. When we land in Chicago, I'll be taking you to Damien."

Mark stared in disbelief. "I'll kill him. Do you hear me, I'll fucking kill him!"

"It might be interesting to see if you'd be allowed to. In any event, you've got to see him so you'll understand what's happened."

"Why would I even care what's happened to—"

"To your cousin whom you've always loved as a brother?"

Mark hung his head. "That was a long time ago."

"To you," said Buher, "that was a day ago." 

***

The Thorns’ winter retreat was fashionably situated on the Lake, in an exclusive neighborhood occupied only by the very wealthy. In Mark's past, the house had been an oasis of warmth amidst the bitter winter snows. A fire was always blazing; something was always cooking, filling the air with scents of cinnamon, vanilla, baked ham or roast turkey; and there were always people talking, laughing, welcoming. 

Now it was like a tomb. No warmth, no smells from the kitchen, no people. Buher led Mark to Damien's bedroom. Mark looked quickly down the hall, to the door leading to his parents' room. It stood closed, perhaps never to be opened again. Mark suppressed tears. He would show Buher no feelings.

Except one feeling: as Buher put his hand on the doorknob, Mark took his arm. "I don't want to go in there."

"That's not up to you. I can't harm you. I can force you, and I will. You must see Damien."

But it was not Damien who greeted them when the door opened, it was a nurse in uniform. She stood quickly as they entered, a protective expression on her face, as though ready to chase away intruders. She brightened in recognition when she saw them. "Oh, Mr. Buher. I wasn't expecting you today."

"Things have developed suddenly." Buher looked to his left, to where Mark knew Damien's bed was. His body blocked Mark's view of the room. "Has there been any change?"

"No, sir," said the nurse. "The doctor was in this morning. He said he would call you, but he also said there's really nothing to report."

"I've brought a visitor," said Buher. 

"Well—" the nurse began, clearly preparing to say it wasn't allowed. 

"I can call Dr. Garrison if need be. He would want this young man to see Damien."

"No, I'm sure that's not necessary, Mr. Buher." She craned her neck to see behind Buher, who stepped obligingly aside. The nurse smiled brightly when she saw Mark. "You must be one of Damien's school friends."

Before Mark could correct her, Buher said, "That's right. Damien's roommate from the Academy."

Mark wondered at the lie, but forgot quickly, as Buher's position now allowed him to see into the room—to see Damien. 

His cousin was in bed, pajama-clad, lying almost at attention on his back. His eyes were closed, as though in sleep, but his face was deathly pale. Did he look older, as Buher claimed he should? Mark wasn't sure, but Damien was clearly not well. He was hooked to a monitor, and had a tube extending from his nose. Mark looked questioningly at Buher. 

"He's in a coma."

"How—?"

"Nurse, would you excuse us, please? These young men are close friends. I need to explain, and he," he nodded at Mark, "is going to need some time to adjust. I think that's time best spent here with Damien."

She started to object.

"I promise I'll call you if anything changes. Damien's in good hands. The boys are practically family."

"I'll be just outside," the nurse said dubiously.

As he studied his cousin's corpse-like features, Mark reflected on yet another lie from Buher.  Practically family. Legally, they were family. Factually, this creature on the bed was related to no human. 

When the door closed, Mark said, without looking up, "What happened?"

"You happened." Buher circled around to stand on the other side of the bed. "Your death at Damien's hands was predestined. After killing you, his human brother—"

"I was never—"

" His human brother, " Buher interrupted fiercely, "he would no longer have any ties to this world. He would be free to embrace his destiny. It seemed to work, at first. He took your parents' deaths in stride—"

"He murdered my parents!" said Mark. Again, a pain stabbed at his heart. He felt a moment's impulse to leap forward and strangle Damien, finish his killer’s already-begun journey down the road to oblivion.

Buher's response was clinical, as though they were debating a business proposition. "That's not entirely accurate. You see, you mother stabbed your father to death with the daggers that were meant to slay Damien—"

The words were just words, but the message they carried was overwhelming. At first it was just absurd, what Buher was telling him. Then the possibility of the story's reality stuck Mark, and it was too much to absorb. As he tried to wrestle with the very idea, his breath caught in his throat. And Buher was still talking."Oh, God, stop!" he begged around a breath that wouldn't finish, and then he found himself inexplicably sobbing, convulsively, unable to control himself. 

His parents were really dead. 

So many emotions washed over him—grief, disbelief, anger. There was also mortification that Buher should see him weeping like this. He eyed the second story window of the bedroom, and wondered if flinging himself through it would result in a quick death, a quick exit from this nightmare.

"Please spare me your sniveling," growled Buher. "Once I've told you what I'm required to, you may go to your room and experience whatever histrionics you like. But, for now, you will listen, if I have to have you placed in restraints."

Mark stared dumbly at Buher. He began to wonder if there could be a monster more evil than the Antichrist. 

"Your mother died at Damien's hands, it's true," Buher went on. "He caused the fire which claimed her life; but at her own invitation."

"What?" Mark managed.

"Ann Thorn was always one of us. She married your father specifically because he was going to be given care of Damien. She knew what her fate would be, in time, and she embraced it. She loved Damien—"

"She loved me!" Mark insisted.

Buher shrugged. "It's possible, but I doubt it. After all, you're no Damien Thorn."

"So why am I alive, if I'm so inferior?"

"Because Damien became obsessed with your memory. After months of entertaining himself with every worldly delight a boy with his power could have, he told me he felt empty, unloved. He...missed you. He claimed you were the only thing he ever truly loved."

"The devil can't love!"

"This devil," Buher nodded at the pale form on the bed, "is mortal. And he can. I don't know if he does." Buher sneered at Mark. "Nor do I know why he would. But he sacrificed everything to bring you back."

"How? If I was dead—"

"Damien's powers are beyond my comprehension. But I know that he had to call on his—on higher powers."

"On his father." 

"If you like. Unlike the Nazarene, he could not raise the dead on a whim. There was a price to pay for your resurrection. He's paying it now."

"Will he wake up?" 

"Perhaps. His doctors can't even begin to determine what's causing his condition."

"I thought he was invulnerable."

"He was. Until you woke up."

"So what happens now?"

"I have absolutely no idea. This was never part of the plan. Damien went rogue, sacrificing his power—and all we had fought for—for the selfish pleasure of giving you life again. I was to bring you here.”

"Why?"

"You are to act as the deciding factor. That's all I know."

"And if I decide to walk away, to never see any of you again, to live my own life?"

"You will find that... difficult. You are not heir to Thorn. You own nothing. You are legally dead."

"So what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Buher nodded again at Damien. "Ask him. You're his problem now. And his property."

Mark did not notice when Buher left the room. 

END PART ONE


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark explores a world that has gone on without him, trying to decide what in Hell Damien wants from him.

Mark was at a loss as to what to do next. Stay here, with that _horror_ in the house? Try to go somewhere else? And live on what? Buher had made it clear that he was no longer a Thorn—he was a nobody. How would he make his way, a thirteen-year-old—well, he guessed he was older now—with no parents, no legal guardian?

He thought of a trip downtown with Damien and his parents, to Rush Street, where Ann had hurried the boys along, so they wouldn't see too much of Chicago's seamy side. There had been women strolling the sidewalks, garishly clad, overly made-up. They weren't particularly attractive, but they seemed to try to catch the glance of every passing male. A couple of them lit up when they saw Mark and Damien.

"Don't make eye-contact," Ann had whispered. "You don't want to talk to them."

But the women had clearly wanted to talk to them, especially—was he being vain?—to Mark. They kept raking their eyes over him.

"It's because you're tall," Damien had said later, "and blond. You're the poster boy for the American woman's ideal. They only notice me because I'm next to you."

Mark had told Damien it wasn't true. More than one girl had whispered to Mark that Damien's eyes drove her wild, that his smile was so rakish, like a pirate's. Mark hadn't wanted Damien to feel inferior. He was, after all, a good-looking kid, if Mark had to admit it. Really, his cousin was—

His cousin was the Antichrist.

And because of that, Mark had died, and was now living a bizarre sort of half-life. If he tried to leave it, to venture out in the world, would he wind up some place like Rush Street? Because there had been boys there, too, young boys. Some of them were no older than Mark and Damien. Mark had locked eyes with one of them, a ginger boy, thin and short, with smooth skin and green eyes that sought compassion, or at least pity. He looked hungry. He was young, but his eyes had the same tired cast as those of the older, female prostitutes. Was he a hustler? Did he turn tricks for money, money to buy drugs?

Was that how Mark would end up?

Buher had said Mark's fate was up to Damien. But what if Damien never awoke? Would Buher see to it that Mark had a place to live, food to eat? Most likely, as long as Mark wasn't a threat to his position. He could stay in this house—his parents' house. Or was it Damien's now?

What would his parents want him to do?

Ann would want him to look out for his cousin. "Look out for Damien," she'd said to him every day since his cousin had moved in. "He's smaller than you, and he's lost so much." And his father? What would his father have wanted? After all, Buher said that Dad was planning to kill Damien with the same daggers Uncle Robert had tried to use on him. Would his dad want him to stay here, reclaim his home, maybe even slay the Antichrist?

Could he kill Damien?

The question had many parts. Was it physically possible? Maybe. Buher said that Damien was weakened. Would the diabolical forces that had given him birth allow it? Again, maybe, since Mark's resurrection was not within their plans, and Damien seemed to be out of favor with them. Was this some sort of trial? If so, who was judge and who was jury? And was it possible that Mark could be the executioner?

Final question: Could Mark bring himself to kill Damien?

God help him, he just did not know.

***

"Murray, can you take me to Davidson?"

The chauffeur shook his head. "That's not a good idea, Mark."

Mark had caught Murray polishing the limo in the garage, keeping it ready, he supposed, against the day that the head of the household recovered and needed a car.

"I just want to visit some old friends. I'm going stir-crazy all alone in this house."

"Mark, you should be thinking about the future, not the past. The past is dead."

Murray wasn't unkind when he said it, but the words still sent a chill down Mark's spine. _The past is dead, like my parents are dead. Like I was dead._

"Please, Murray. Just for old times' sake. And I want to go to the cemetery. I need to pay my respects to Mom and Dad."

_I need to see for myself some evidence that they're really gone._

He had read the obituaries, supplied for him by Buher in a notebook of clippings relevant to the family and its business. It proved nothing to him. He needed to see the graves, to somehow, in some way, say goodbye.

"I'll drive you," Murray sighed. "A boy should be able to visit his parents' grave. But Davidson?"

"Please, Murray."

Mark, Damien and Murray had always been friends. The chauffeur had driven them more often than Mark's parents had. He was practically an uncle.

"You won't like what you find, but I guess you have to make your own mistakes."

Now what the hell did that mean?

"Get in the car," said Murray. "No time like the present."

***

"Teddy?"

The burly, auburn-haired boy in uniform turned and grunted, "Yeah? Can I help you?"

He was bigger than Mark remembered. Of course, it had been a while since they'd seen each other. Time had not been kind to his face. It was blunter, uglier. They had been rivals, enemies, even, but surely such things faded with absence. He was actually glad to see Teddy. Teddy must at least feel less hatred than he used to.

"I just stopped by to visit—y'know, see the guys."

"Visit?" asked Teddy stupidly. "Do I know you, kid?"

"Of course you know me, I'm—"

"I've never seen you before in my life, man."

"But I'm—"

"Teddy!"

It was an authoritative voice, and familiar, ringing out from the steps of the main building. Mark had confronted Teddy on the parade ground out front. At the top of the steps stood a lean man, also in uniform, whose dark eyes burned into Teddy.

Teddy snapped to attention. "Yes, Sergeant!"

"Rest period is over. Do you need a lesson in timekeeping?"

"No, Sergeant!"

"Then get inside with the others, and take two demerits. Class began two minutes ago."

"Yes, Sergeant!"

Teddy took off like a cat with a Rottweiler on its tail, and the man who had called him out came down the steps to Mark.

"Sergeant Neff," said Mark. "It's—"

Daniel Neff did not slow down as he approached. He came close to Mark, seized his arm and pulled him away from the building. "Are you out of your mind?"

"What?" Mark demanded. "I just wanted to visit—"

"There's nothing for you to see here."

"But I went to school here. I have friends—"

"Mark Thorn went to school here. Mark Thorn had friends here. Mark Thorn is dead. His friends attended his funeral and saw him buried." Neff jerked his head at the brick building behind them. "Teddy saw your cold, dead body in a casket and wept over it."

"But I—"

"You are an abomination, a mistake. You have no identity."

"That's not true!" Mark fought the tears of frustration that were building in his eyes. "I am Mark Thorn!"

"Keep your voice down," Neff whispered urgently, "or you'll be committed to an asylum for claiming the identity of a dead boy."

"All anyone has to do is look at my face to know that—"

"Teddy looked at your face didn't he?"

"He—" Mark broke off. Teddy hadn't know him. The nurse at home had not recognized him, though his pictures were all over the house. The constable in England had seemed to believe that he looked nothing like Mark Thorn. "But Murray knows me. Buher does."

"All the disciples will recognize you. No one else will. To the world, Mark Thorn is dead. For them, you wear a stranger's face. For them, you have no existence. You live at the whim of the beast."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Damien's in a coma."

"I suppose you wait. Wait to see what happens to you, just like the rest of us are waiting. The only difference is that, for you, the outcome may actually be something you can influence."

"But how? How am I supposed to know what to do?"

Neff laughed coldly. "How indeed. You've summarized the human condition in one question, Mark. I can't help you. Return where you belong, to Damien's side. Whatever your answers are, it's only there that they will matter. It's only there that _you_ matter."

***

Back in the car, Mark asked Murray to take him to the cemetery. He was glad the chauffeur did not ask him how things had gone at the school. He stared out the window at the countryside racing by and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

How could the whole world have forgotten him? That's what Neff had said. No, that was wrong. He wasn't forgotten. The world knew that Mark Thorn had lived. And died. What the world did not know, and apparently would never recognize, was that _he_ was Mark Thorn. He had lost his identity.

The look of blank, default hostility on Teddy's face stuck in his mind. He and Teddy had known each other for years. Indeed, he had been Teddy's favorite target, the son and nephew of two celebrated alumni of the Academy. Teddy had been jealous of him, but it had only been demonstrated in a running series of taunts, which Mark had ignored.

Then, one day, something had changed. Perhaps it was the arrival of Neff, and the favoritism he showed Damien. Perhaps it was Damien's growing arrogance and popularity with girls from nearby schools. Perhaps it was Mark's own insecurities coming to the fore. Whatever the reason, one day, Teddy's cracks about the Thorn family had pushed Mark too far. He'd slugged Teddy.

And Teddy had proceeded to beat the shit out of him.

Mark had never known how badly he would have been hurt. Teddy was bigger and stronger, after all; but Damien had ended the fight in a frightening way. Mark could still see the terror in Teddy's eyes as Damien, simply by staring at him, had somehow caused the bigger boy to panic, to run into walls, to cry and whimper and nearly piss himself.

After that, Mark had felt moved to go easy on Teddy. It was ironic, because Teddy was a bully and an asshole. But, after his humiliation, Mark felt that it was his place, as representative of the Thorn family, to try and make peace. Mark guessed that was why Teddy had wept at his funeral. Teddy's parents were overbearing and abusive. Mark might have been the first human being ever to have shown the stupid boy some kindness. And it was all because, in that moment that Teddy lost it, Mark had realized that he was more afraid of Damien, of what Damien was becoming, than he was of any bully.

Only one thought nagged him now: Damien had been defending him.

Damien had come upon them—Mark on his back on the floor, Teddy on top of him, fists driving into Mark's face and chest—and become enraged. Mark would never forget the look on Damien's face. It was murderous. The look on Teddy's face as he beat Mark was merely mocking. Teddy had known he had the upper hand, and was enjoying taking advantage of the fact.

But Damien had wanted Teddy dead.

In all the years since Damien had come to live with him, Mark had never before seen his cousin that angry. Damien had been sullen in the early days, having just lost his parents. He was quiet, barely speaking, unlike the five-year old Mark who remembered chatting peoples' ears off. Damien had let Mark do all the talking. As he grew, Damien had become more relaxed. He would crack jokes and laugh, but nothing ever really seemed to phase him.

Nothing, that is, until he had seen Mark being beaten by Teddy. Was that anger the result of Damien's sense that Mark was his property, being damaged? Or was it, as Damien had claimed, brotherly love?

The Antichrist, the Bible said, was still a man, after all, wasn't he? A man still had feelings, didn't he? Buher had said so.

Did Damien love Mark?

The car stopped. "We're here," said Murray.

Mark looked up. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed when Murray had pulled into the parking lot of the huge country cemetery where the Thorn ancestors were buried.

"I'm going to ask again, Mark," said Murray, "Are you sure you want to do this? You might see something you don't want to see."

"I'm sure," said Mark. He had to see his parents' graves—Mom's, Dad's and Ann's. He had to be reminded that Mark Thorn _had_ an identity, that his entire past had not been stolen from him. He had to have a tie to someone, even if it was only to the dead.

He didn't need directions. He had been here often enough, after Mom had died. He knew that this was where his father's grave would be, and Ann's. As he had expected, beside Mom's grave was a raised area, indicating a recent burial. He steeled himself to see the name "Richard Thorn," and a death date of 1978. When he read the stone, however, his breath stopped in his throat.

The newer grave was not his father's.

_Mark Thorn. Beloved Son. 1965-1978._

There was a Shakespeare quote as well.

He had died. He had died and been buried. Under his feet, there was a coffin, containing—what? Had Damien raised his body? Was the grave empty now? Or was he a madman, who simply believed he was Mark Thorn? Was he really someone else?

He turned away, and found that Richard and Ann's graves, also bearing a death date of 1978, were behind him, facing his own. "Dad," he whispered around a lump in his throat. He knelt on the sod and caressed the letters that spelled his father's name. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He touched his head to the cool marble of the headstone and wept.

"What do I do?" he asked, as though his father could answer. "What am I supposed to do now?"

There was no answer, of course. Richard Thorn was beyond answering. Every member of Mark's family was gone. Dead and gone. Every member, save one—and that one was evil incarnate. On top of that, only the devil's servants would recognize him anyway.

"What do I do?" he wondered out loud again.

His eye fell on another marker, another Thorn family grave, another 1978 death.

_Marion Thorn._

Crazy Aunt Marion. Weird Aunt Marion. An old woman obsessed with her Bible and her family's money. She had loved Mark, though. Creepy as she was, she'd made no secret of that. Mark had wanted no part of her though, because it was clear she hated Damien.

Now he knew why. Somehow, Aunt Marion had sensed the truth, had read it in the very Bible she had left Mark when she died, the Bible in which Mark, too, had learned the truth.

"Any time you don't know what to do, Mark, you can pray. Pray for the answer. The Lord will tell you what you need to know."

Mark did not know how to pray.

***

"Um, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The Thorns were not practicing Catholics. They were not practicing anything. The boys had never been taken to church with any regularity. They had no home church. On the occasions when the possibility of going to church arose, Damien usually wound up getting sick.

How prophetic that was, Mark realized now.

Mark picked a church at random, based on its proximity to the cemetery. Murray had been skeptical, but he did as he was asked.

The priest smiled. His name was Father Andrew. He was older, with a kind face that reminded Mark a little bit of a cartoon eagle.

"You don't have to say that, son. I'm not actually hearing your confession right now. Let's just talk. What's your name?"

"Mark. Mark, um, Richardson."

The priest noticed the stumble, and no doubt knew Mark was giving a fake name. "And you think you've sinned."

"Kinda. I mean, I don't know. It's more—I'm not sure what to do. My—my brother, he's sort of, gone bad."

"You mean he's a criminal? Joined a gang? Involved with drugs?"

"Something like that, yes. He's hurt people."

"Has he hurt you?"

Mark nodded.

"Mark, are you in danger?"

"No. No, I'm sure I'm not. That's the thing, you see my brother is sick. He's in a coma. He may die."

"That must be hard for your parents."

"My parents are dead."

"I'm very sorry."

"My brother is all that's left of my family."

"Family is important, Mark. Our Father in Heaven places them in our lives so that we have companionship, moral guidance. Our relationships with our parents mirror our relationship with God. And, in the bonds we share with our siblings are the keys to how we are to treat all of humanity."

"My parents are dead. What does that tell me about my relationship with God?"

"You mustn't be cynical, Mark. God cannot die. It's hard to be without your parents. That makes it all the more important that you mend fences with your brother. The two of you need each other." Father Andrew sat back, crossed his arms. "Tell me, Mark, what would your parents want?"

Mark couldn't help but grimace ironically. He had asked himself the same question, and come up with no practical answers. He couldn't imagine any of them would want to see a brotherly reconciliation.

But none of his parents were here. It was just Mark. Mark... and Damien.

He couldn't answer the priest's question, so he asked one of his own. "Father, is it possible that a human being could be so evil that even God couldn't forgive him?"

"No, Mark. That's not possible. We can distance ourselves from God and refuse His love, damning ourselves. But God is always ready to forgive us our sins."

"But what if God forgives us, and we keep right on sinning?"

"If we truly know God's forgiveness, we won't feel the urge to sin any longer."

Mark swallowed. He knew the next question would catch the priest by surprise, maybe give away too much, but he had to ask it. "Father, do you believe in the Antichrist?"

Father Andrew paused. "I'm not sure how that's relevant to your situation, Mark. The Bible speaks of the Beast, that he will rise up and rule the world, that he will go into battle with the forces of the Lord. Better theologians than I have debated whether that's a metaphor, or whether such a man will truly be born."

"What do you believe?"

The old man chuckled. "I believe that some questions are best left for God to wrestle with. I have faith that my soul is safe in His hands. You can have that same faith. St. John didn't write the Revelation to frighten us, but to assure us that God is in His Heaven, and He has control, no matter how much sound and fury the powers of evil generate."

"Even if that sound and fury gets people killed?"

"If you believe that the soul is immortal, then death is merely a transition from one life to the next. Evil cannot triumph. It can only move its pieces about the board."

"If..." Mark began, considering his words carefully. He must sound like a lunatic to this poor old man. "If the Antichrist is just a man, does he have any say about it? Does he _have_ to be the Beast?"

"If the Beast is a mortal man, he has free will. We all do. But are you afraid that your brother _is_ the Beast? Is he truly _that_ evil?"

Mark waited a long time before saying quietly, "I don't know."

"I'm sure your brother can turn himself around. And perhaps the greatest chance he will have to do that will be to know that you believe in him. Set him an example, Mark. Show your brother the power of forgiveness, and you will show him Jesus's love. That love can accomplish anything, I promise you. It can even slay the Beast, and leave the man in God's grace."

***

_Does Damien have free will? Could God forgive him, and accept him?_

_Do I believe in God?_

Mark was back home, these questions teeming, unanswered in his mind as he lay back on the sofa in front of the fireplace, a family photo album propped against his knees.

"First Day of School," was written at the top of the current page, in Ann's florid script. There were four photos of Mark and Damien, standing stiffly in pressed shirts and elastic-waist slacks, blinking against the sunlight as Ann coaxed them to smile. Mark looked frightened, Damien was smirking in that way he had always had, a look that suggested that all adults were brain-damaged defectives who just needed to be pacified so that he could go about his business.

They were holding hands.

_I held hands with the Antichrist. Sounds like one of those 50s horror movies Ann used to like to show us._

There was a picture of them getting off the school bus. Ann had almost sent them in the limo, but Richard had been firm that such special treatment would alienate the other children, even in the exclusive private school the boys were attending. So they rode the bus, mostly.

Mark was smiling in this picture. He remembered that he had been afraid of the bus, and the noise, the bigger kids. Damien had led him by the hand up the steps and into a seat. He had leaned in close as the bus pulled away from their home and whispered to Mark, who was about to cry. "It's okay, Mark. You're coming with me. I won't let anything happen to you."

_You're coming with me._

_Come with me, Mark... Don't make me beg you..._

The words little Damien had spoken so long ago, echoed in the voice of the Beast, the Damien who had grown up to be that _thing_ upstairs in the bed. How could the person Mark had counted on, the person who had always made him feel safe, have turned into that?

_I love you, Mark. You're like my brother._

_You_ are _my brother._

_You mean more to me_ _—_

Yesterday's words rang in his skull like they would never fade away. Alongside them echoed his own response, "The Beast has no brother!"

So who was that frightened little blond boy in the pictures—the one that was hanging on for dear life to the equally small hand of the Antichrist?

END PART TWO


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark makes his decision. (Yeah, this chapter is the reason for the "Mature" rating.)

"Do you mind if I speak to my— _friend—_ alone?"

Mark had made his decision. There were things he had to say to Damien. He had no plan beyond that, but he had to say them out loud. Afterward? He would deal with afterward, well, afterward.

He expected the nurse to say it was pointless, but she smiled, stood, set aside the magazine she'd been reading, and said, "That's probably a good idea. People in comas may be able to hear us. We really don't know. It may help, and it can't hurt. I need to go call about ordering some supplies anyway. Take your time."

Evidently, she had become comfortable with his being here. When Mark had first arrived, she had not seemed to want to let anyone near Damien. Now he wondered if it had been Buher's presence that made her nervous.

She left, closing the door gently. When her footsteps faded, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the monitor, which was connected by cables to Damien's chest, keeping track of his pulse, breathing and heart rhythms. Mark started to pull up her chair, then thought better of it and sat instead on the bed beside Damien. He carefully moved the feeding tube which was keeping his cousin from wasting away, and positioned himself with his back against the headboard, drawing his knees to his chin so he could watch Damien's sleeping face.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Damien," he whispered, self-conscious, at speaking to this breathing corpse. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. I guess I'm supposed to hate you. I should at least be angry. Before you—before what happened, out there in the woods, I was angry, and scared." He hung his head. "I was so scared."

He stopped and looked at Damien's face, still the face of the little boy he had first met in this very house, so many years ago. The hair had darkened with age, and lost some of its former waviness. The eyes had seemed to become more piercing, making you wonder what was going on behind them. It was still the same face, boyish, intelligent, sweet to the point of being angelic. Had he really been afraid of it?

"I don't feel any of that now. I remember feeling it, but, it's like, reading a book about someone else feeling those things, you know? Like they didn't happen to me. All I feel now is...lost...confused. I have no one to talk to. I went to see a priest."

He checked again, to see if that statement provoked even a flutter of an eyelid. It did not.

"I couldn't come clean with him. I couldn't tell him who I am, because he'd think I was crazy. I couldn't tell him what really happened between us, because I guess he'd have to call the police. I mean, I guess some kind of crime was committed, wasn't it? But I feel like the police couldn't understand. It's like...no one else could make sense of it. No one else could judge it. It's between you and me.

"That's what it comes down to, Damien. I should be angry with you. I should be afraid of you. I shouldn't trust you. Hell, I don't trust you. But you're all I have left. You're the only one who knows that I'm Mark Thorn, who stands a chance of helping me continue to be that person. Or any person. Buher and Neff aren't going to help me in any way. They want me dead.

"But—you didn't want me dead. For whatever reason, you wanted me alive. And I am alive. So I guess I'm here to ask you...What do you want from me, Damien?"

He realized that his eyes were wet with tears. He wiped them away angrily with his sleeve and went on. "I don't know if I can give you what you want, but I do know that, without you, there's no next step for me. There's no path forward. I need you, Damien. I know you're...what you are. I can't forget that. But aren't you also what you _were_? My cousin? My brother? The kid who held my hand and promised me it would be okay? The kid who made me stop being so afraid?"

Knowing he probably shouldn't, Mark nudged Damien's shoulder with the palm of his hand. It was a gesture half of annoyance, half of need. "Well I'm afraid again, Damien. I'm afraid of being no one. I'm afraid of living the rest of my life forgotten and lost. And I'm afraid for my soul, if I have one, because there's no way out for me except to ask you for help. And that means asking the devil for help. That means," he drew a deep breath, forcing himself to say the words, "that means saying the only thing I feel right now, except for being scared."

He leaned close and whispered, "I love you, Damien. I always have. And now I know I can't stop, even if you are the devil's son. I love you. It's you and me. And I really need you to wake up and tell me what the hell we're supposed to do now."

He waited several heartbeats. When Damien still did not respond, tears of frustration leaked from his eyes. He drew his knees tighter and buried his face against them, wrapping his arms in a taut circle.

Let the nurse come and find him this way. Let them cart him off to an asylum. Let Satan come and take his soul. He didn't care. Despair was all he had left.

Despair...and Damien.

***

It was light out when Mark awoke. Morning sun bathed the room, its brilliance increased by the snow on the ground outside. It was a cold, Chicago winter, but Mark, cocooned under blankets, was warm, even a little sweaty. As he opened his eyes, he realized that it wasn't just blankets keeping him warm. Someone was spooned against his back, one arm draped easily about him. Someone, head propped on one elbow, was watching him, smiling.

"Someone" was Damien.

"Good morning," said his cousin. His eyes were open, his face flushed pink with health. The leads and tubes were gone, the heart monitor powered off. This boy was not in a coma, and did not look like he ever had been.

Mark recoiled, almost falling out of bed.

Damien laughed. "What's the matter, with you, you freak? You fall asleep in my bed, and you don't expect to wake up next to me?"

"You were in a coma!"

Damien pulled Mark back toward him so he wouldn't actually fall out of bed. "Yeah, well, you took care of that problem."

"I did?" Mark asked suspiciously. "What the hell was wrong with you anyway?" He turned on his side, facing Damien, putting a few inches between them.

"It was a condition of your resurrection. It was a sort of a bet that I made with my father—that you were the one person on earth who loved me enough to see past what I am."

"What if you'd been wrong?"

Damien shrugged. "I would have died eventually, right here, never waking. If you had run, if you had stayed away, if I hadn't heard those words come out of your mouth—"

Mark felt himself blush.

Damien noticed. "Are you embarrassed?"

"A little, I guess."

"That you said you loved me? We used to say it all the time, when we were little."

"That's different. That's...innocent."

Damien raised his eyebrows. "And now our love is sinful?"

"Stop!"

"Stop saying that I love you, and you love me?"

"It's—it's queer!"

Now Damien laughed out loud, slapping the bed with both hands. It was a happy sound, like any kid would make when he was delighted with something. It wasn't what Mark would expect from—from what Damien really was.

"I'm the bloody Antichrist, Mark. The Beast. Do you think I care what the world says is 'queer?' I'm destined to reshape the world in my image."

The ease with which Damien admitted who he really was brought Mark up short. It was all so unreal. This wasn't a demonic beast. This was the kid he'd grown up with—his playmate, his brother. "If you've got this whole destiny in front of you, how could your—" he couldn't, wouldn't say the word. "How could _Satan_ have let you die?"

"So far all of my brothers have."

"Your brothers?"

"I'm not the first Antichrist. There have been several, beginning not long after the Nazarene was crucified. His people, led by zealots like Bugenhagen, have always killed us. As far as my father is concerned, if my mortal foolishness had killed me, it just meant I was another who was unworthy. If you had rejected me, I would have died, and he would have sent another Beast in another generation."

"And you? Didn't you care if you lived or died?"

Damien looked down. "Not really." He swallowed, then looked Mark in the eye. "You see, when you died, it was supposed to be the big break. With my last tie to my mortal childhood eliminated, I was to focus only on my mission—to rule the world in the name of Satan. As a reward, I would have wealth, power, any fleshly delight. I went through the motions for a while. I prepared to embrace my destiny. It all felt wrong. Without you there, it was like—like a piece of my soul was missing."

"You asked me to come with you," said Mark. "Right before—" He didn't want to finish the thought.

"I needed you, Mark. I knew it then. They tried to convince me, Buher and Neff and the others, that I was just being sentimental and foolish. But, the longer you were out of my life, the worse the emptiness became. I was miserably unhappy. I didn't care about my destiny, if you weren't part of it. When I decided to act, to bring you back, they tried to talk me out of it. They told me I could die—probably would die."

Damien looked away again. His voice became gruff. "They didn't know that, I actually wanted to die."

"You gambled your life," said Mark.

"Because it wasn't worth anything to me, if you weren't in it." Damien looked at him again. There were tears in his eyes. "I can have anything I want. I have. Girls, women... boys. I've possessed them all. But no one touched me. No one possessed me. I don't trust anyone." Damien reached out and took Mark's hand. "Except you. Ever since I was little, ever since my parents died—I didn't know who I was then. I was just a little boy whose whole world had collapsed. And you were there, taking care of me. Remember those first few nights? I would cry, and you—"

"I'd crawl into bed with you, and hold you."

"Like you did last night," said Damien. He shook his head, smiling, overcome with emotion. "You're _home_ to me, Mark. Warmth and comfort and all the things people mean when they say 'home.' That's what you are to me. That's why my father wanted me to give you up. But I couldn't."

It took Mark a moment to find his voice. When he did, he said, "When I learned about you, it scared me. _You_ scared me."

"I never wanted to. You don't need to be afraid. All my power, it's yours."

"You hurt me."

"I didn't mean to. Learning what I was, and all the pressure to be what they wanted me to be—what my father wanted me to be. Literally, there were voices in my head. I was out of my mind, I didn't know—"

"You killed me," said Mark.

"I—"

"All your power is mine to control?"

"Yes. I swear."

"And you can't hurt me?"

"No one can hurt you."

"But I can hurt you?"

Damien nodded, never taking his eyes off Mark's. His eyes formed a question.

By way of answer, a perverse impulse formed in Mark's mind, a curiosity, a need for proof. He raised his hand, drew it back.

If Damien knew what he was going to do, he did not flinch, did not object. Only his eyes tightened with a wince as Mark's hand slapped his cheek hard, making a sound like a gunshot in the room.

Damien's cheek reddened. He brought one hand up to feel the heat of the impact, but his eyes never left Mark's.

"Did that hurt?" Mark asked.

Damien nodded.

"Are you bleeding?"

"Do you want me to bleed?" asked Damien. When Mark did not respond, he turned his head slightly, turning the other cheek to his cousin.

Numbly, not sure what impulse was driving his actions, Mark lifted his hand again. Was this some kind of mind control? Was Damien forcing him to do this, as some kind of repentance? Or was his own subconscious driving him to seek vengeance? Or even to fulfill some sort of need that Damien had?

Mark struck again, the force of the blow this time driving Damien's head to the side. He almost lost the balance of his seated posture on the bed. Straightening, he again felt the smitten cheek with his hand. His tongue probed inside. He swallowed, trembling.

"I'm bleeding," he said quietly, then, "Taste it."

He launched himself at Mark, his open mouth sealing itself against Mark's own.

Mark wanted to pull away, wanted to tell Damien that this was wrong, that he didn't feel this way. His body disagreed. The nearness of his cousin, the warmth of their bodies pressing together, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, hardened him, awakening a passion he had never felt. He pulled Damien tight and explored his mouth.

"Kiss me, Mark," moaned Damien. "Taste my blood. Taste my pain."

They fell against the mattress, side by side, tongues and limbs intertwined. When Mark was out of breath, he placed a hand on Damien's chest and held him away. Damien was smiling, staring into his eyes. One of his hands entangled itself gently in Mark's hair and stroked it.

Mark shook his head. "What the hell are we doing?"

"What I've wanted to do for a long time," sighed Damien. He came forward to renew his assault.

Mark again blocked him with one hand. "What about the nurse?"

Damien chuckled. "When I lock a door, it stays locked. She'll call for help, but it won't get here for a while."

"It's not right, Damien, it's—it's a sin."

"Are you forgetting who you're with?"

"I don't think I can forget that. But I'm not ready to plunge into full-on sacrilege, or to become—y'know—"

"Gay?"

Mark felt himself blush at the mere mention of the word. "Yes. I mean, I guess it's okay if you are."

"I'm not," said Damien.

"No? Then what are you?"

"You know what I am. I'm the Beast. Any sexual contact with me is interspecies. On the scale of forbidden sexuality, I'm way past gay. And I like women, I just," his tone of arrogance faded. He muttered, "I like you more."

Mark lay back and stared at the ceiling. "I just don't know what to make of all this."

"You're evaluating your actions based on a moral code that someone wrote thousands of years ago. You don't even understand it, but you're trying to live by it."

"I'm just trying to be a good person."

"Yeah, well, I don't have that option. I'm just trying to make the most of the fact that there's one person who actually loves me, and he's here with me, and not dead."

"By 'make the most of,' you mean 'have gay sex with,'" said Mark, still not looking at Damien.

"Pre-marital sex is a sin too, Mark. What about all those little whores you fucked at school dances?" There was an edge of bitterness in Damien's voice when he said it. Bitterness, and, perhaps, jealousy?

Slowly, hesitantly, Mark said, "Damien, I'm a virgin."

Damien, eyes wide, said, "You're lying. You have to be! At the last school dance you disappeared for hours with—"

"I've never had sex with a girl," insisted Mark, then, as an afterthought, and with a sideways glance at his cousin, "Or a guy."

Damien stared, challenging. His lip curled in a familiar way that said to Mark, "I don't believe you."

"All right!" Mark snapped. "I got a blowjob at the dance."

"Well, that's something. And was it the high point of your moral existence? Was it true love?"

Mark grabbed a free pillow and hit Damien in the face. "Shut up!"

When Damien did not respond, Mark crossed his arms defiantly and said, "She didn't know how to cover her teeth. I had red marks on my dick for a week. It hurt. And when I finally came, she gagged and pulled off me. It went all over her dress."

"Sounds like fun to me."

"What? Pain? Humiliation?"

"It's how I'm wired."

"And I felt guilty afterward. Like I'd made her unclean, or something."

"You had. I bet the dress was ruined."

He said it so matter-of-factly, with so little intonation, that Mark could not help but laugh. And, once begun, his laughter would not subside.

When he was able to breathe once again, Damien was looking at him hopefully. "I promise I won't gag."

"You want to... blow me?"

"C'mon, Mark, it's not like I've never seen your dick before. I've seen you cum. Who taught you how to jack off?"

It was true. Damien was twelve when he'd learned what their dicks could do. He had eagerly shown Mark that night, demonstrating by stroking himself to a messy ejaculation. When Mark had achieved only a dry orgasm on that first try, Damien had instituted regular "practice" sessions to train Mark's organ to do the job right. He'd even taken things in hand himself after the first few days. The first time Mark had shot semen, it had been with Damien's hand wrapped around his dick.

"Circle jerks are one thing, Damien. Guys do that. But—"

"Just close your eyes and pretend it was—what was that little tramp's name?"

The sheer lack of concern for others, whether or not it was a pose, Mark could not tell, annoyed him to the point of saying, "Her name was 'fuck you sideways, Damien Thorn.'"

Damien grinned. "Later. After you cum down my throat. And 'sideways' may have to wait until tomorrow. I want you to fuck me the normal way first."

"You're a fucking freak!" said Mark, throwing another pillow.

Damien took told of Mark's belt buckle. "A fucking freak who's about to swallow your load, my only brother."

"Damien—"

Damien looked up and widened his eyes as he opened Mark's belt.

"Damien—"

Damien looked away now, focusing on tugging Mark's jeans down off his hips.

"Damien..."

Mark's dick was free, and Damien wasted no time in engulfing it with his mouth. Taking Damien's suggestion, Mark closed his eyes. The image of his cousin, his brother, his best friend doing— _that—_ was too much to watch.

And yet it felt so good.

If he just pretended it was—oh, shit, what was her name?

But it was Damien.

After all, he could be forgiven for forgetting a name, right? He'd been dead for years. His brain might have lost something. Neurons might have died. Synapses withered like tomato vines in a drought.

But his dick sure hadn't withered, and it felt so good. He could just pretend it was a girl, and it would be perfect.

But it wasn't a girl.

It was Damien.

And it still felt good.

His cousin was sucking his dick.

And it was perfect.

When Damien had, as promised, swallowed every drop without gagging, he snaked his way up Mark's bare chest (when had he lost his shirt?) and held his face inches from Mark's. He opened his mouth, and there, on his tongue, was the pearly essence Mark had just released.

"Want another taste?" asked Damien.

"Gross!"

"Oh, like you've never tasted it!"

Mark could refuse him nothing. When their tongues had thoroughly bathed each other, and, he had, indeed, tasted a familiar taste, Damien asked with uncharacteristic humility, "Was that okay?"

"I have to admit that was amazing. But is this what your... _father_...would want you to be doing?"

"I'm not asking him. Believe it or not, like God gives other mortals free will, so my father did me. The whole Antichrist thing wouldn't work without it. God and Satan can pressure us, punish us, manipulate us; but, in the end, our will is our own. My father and his followers want me to be the anti-Messiah. They wanted me to kill you. But it's who I think I am, not who they think I am, that matters."

"And who are you?"

Damien nestled himself against Mark's shoulder. "I'm someone who loves you."

"As a brother," Mark said with discomfort.

"In any way you could name."

Mark swallowed. "Aren't we a little young for that stuff? I mean, eternal love and all that?"

"Time didn't stand still while you were gone, Mark. Look at me. I'm older."

It was true. While Damien had been ill, it was hard to notice. Now, however, he was clearly more man than boy.

"I also aged you up," said Damien, "so we'd still be the same age. You're taller, and a little hairier."

For a while they were silent. Mark wondered when the nurse—or Buher, or a doctor—would come pounding at the door. But Damien seemed untroubled.

"Do you remember The first time I met Aunt Marion?”

"Oh," said Mark. He looked away. Yes, he remembered.

"She was glaring at me, passing judgment. Already, she'd found me wanting."

"She looked at you and said something like, 'Oh, this is Robert's child.' Like she would have said, 'Ann, there's some trash on the floor over here.'"

"You came over to me, and put your arms around me. Do you remember what you said?"

"Probably something stupid."

"You said, 'Mine!' You put your arms around me and you told that old bat that I was yours."

"Kids say crazy things, don't they?"

"I am yours, Mark."

"Damien--"

"I'd never belonged before, don't you understand? My father took me to replace a dead child. My mother was afraid of me—oh, not at first, sure. But once she got to know me. All of my nannies were just slaves. You, you were the first mortal—the first person—to make me feel like I belonged, to love me enough to actually say I belonged to you. That's why I couldn't let you go."

"But all that was before I knew what you really are."

"And now you know, and you still know you can't let go of me, just as I couldn't let go of you, even though I was supposed to."

Damien raised himself up, sitting cross-legged, looming over Mark. "Mark, these past months, I've been alone. In charge. The ruler of a virtual empire. There's nothing I wanted that I couldn't take. But I've always taken. I haven't given to anyone. I told you, no one has had me." Damien bit his lip, for the first time in years seeming uncertain. "I want you to have me Mark. I want to give you everything." He came forward, unfolding his legs and arching one leg over Mark, coming to rest, kneeling, over Mark's waist. "Please don't say no. I'll do the work. Just let me give myself. I'm yours."

Mark thought to protest—thought to, but did not actually want to. This had to be wrong, he told himself, and yet it did not _feel_ wrong. Tears were in his eyes from the words Damien had spoken. Only one person in all this world loved him, and that person was here, with him, loving him. What if that person was Satan's child? Was that Mark's fault? Was it Damien's? No one asked to be born, much less born of a jackal. Still, Mark wondered if God would agree with his justifications?

_Am I surrendering my soul by doing this?_

As Damien pushed himself onto Mark, pushed Mark into him, Mark could think no more. He could only feel, with an intensity that threatened to drive him mad, building and building, a level of sensation he had not known was possible.

Finally, Mark could hold out no longer. As his own release came, he felt the evidence of Damien's hot against his chest. At the height of his passion, despite himself, Mark threw back his head like a wolf baying at the moon and shrieked.

_"Damien!"_

END PART THREE


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien and Mark confront Satan's acolytes and make a decision for their future.

"Damien, how did you bring me back?"

They were still in Damien's bed, naked now, intertwined together and spent from frantic lovemaking. Mark supposed he should feel ashamed. It was a sin, after all, doing these things with a boy. But it felt so right. Damien felt so right.

"Is it important?" Damien asked in response to his question.

"It is to me."

"It was something like the way I was born to begin with."

Mark could not help a wicked grin. "You mean you fucked a jackal?"

Damien rolled his eyes. "No. I mean—when I was born—"

"Of a jackal."

He jabbed Mark's shoulder, eliciting a yelp. "—Keep that up, and what just happened may never happen again."

"But you were!"

"Yes, I was. Born of a beast. A scientific impossibility, right?"

"I mean, a human can't get a dog pregnant."

Damien shrugged. "My father isn't human. It's just as unlikely that he could get a woman pregnant. He's not the same species. He chose a wild animal because there would be no questions, no notice of my birth. And, I guess, because he didn't want me to have real ties to humanity. He didn't fuck the jackal and shoot sperm into her. He took the lives growing inside her and remade them, into a child who appeared human. He imprinted my soul on that child."

"Oh my God, you were made out of mashed-up puppies?"

"I'm glad you think it's funny."

"You're a puppy cocktail! My cousin is a fucking horror movie blender drink."

"I'm not your cousin."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm your brother, and your lover," he kissed Mark's neck and licked his way down his chest, "and your slave."

"And the Antichrist."

"Way to ruin a moment."

"So...you made me out of puppies?"

"I made you out of a human. I reshaped him into you. I summoned back your soul and transformed it."

"Transformed it?"

"When the soul passes from the body, it loses the power it needs to survive in this world. It can only live on the next plain. If it tries to return to the world of the living, the soul dies. I had to turn your soul back into one that could live here again."

"Kind of a recharge, a jump start?"

"Yeah. From my own soul."

"That's why you got sick."

"I'm better now."

"You almost died."

"It was worth it."

Mark could not help himself. He had to hug Damien close to him. They were quiet for a moment, then Mark asked. "Who was he?"

"Who was who?"

"The person whose body and life I took over? What happened to his soul?"

"It went where yours was."

"So this person died."

"Obviously."

"That's _wrong_ , Damien. I lost my life—"

"Unfairly."

"Says the guy who killed me."

"I didn't want to, Mark. It was—it was scripted for me.”

"But you traded someone else's life for mine."

"I'd trade a hundred lives for yours. I'd trade the world."

"But it's not _my_ life. I wasn't entitled to it."

"Some people live, Mark. Some die. When life ends, it's not ours any longer."

"But who was he?"

"A rival, actually. Someone my followers would have killed soon anyway. He was a son of industry, like us. He was a bully. Left unchecked, he would soon have acquired power to rival that which awaits me."

"And he lived in England? Is that why I woke up there?"

"Partially. And partially because it had to be a place of great personal significance to me, so that I could focus my life energy on the process of resurrecting you."

"So that was the church where..."

"That was the church where Robert Thorn tried to kill me, yes. That was the first time the human race launched an offensive against me personally. It traumatized me, but it also energized me. It made me want to live. It made me want to fight for the things I desired."

"Were you there, before I woke up?"

"No. I never left this room. I had, well, _people,_ who collected my rival for me, brought him there, bound him—"

"By people you mean minions. Servants. Slaves."

"Followers of my father, sent by him to kill my rival. I just redirected their efforts, made the most of the opportunity."

"And what did your father think of that?"

"My father is pragmatic. He couldn't break my humanity, so he decided to teach me a lesson. He decided to show me how dangerous love is, by letting me share so much of my soul's power that it almost killed me. If you hadn't found it in your heart to love me, to forgive me, I would have died."

"And now?"

"And now he thinks you're a hostage against my good behavior."

"So, he'll kill me if you don't follow orders."

"No. He'll kill _me_. No one can hurt you now. My punishment would be separation from you."

"It's all so wrong, Damien. These games with lives. This Satanic plan..."

"Remember one thing, Mark. My father's plan is God's plan too."

Mark shook his head. "How can that be? Satan is the enemy."

"God's enemy, yes," agreed Damien. "An enemy God made—literally created—and then cast out of Heaven. You've read the Bible?"

"I read Aunt Marion's Bible. After Dr. Warren told Dad about you." Mark went quiet for a moment. That night had ended everything. The next day, he had died. Now his Mom and Dad were dead.

Damien stroked his hair and watched him intently. "I am sorry," he whispered. "I didn't ask for any of this. After you were gone, I knew I didn't want it."

Mark swallowed back tears. "I know."

"What's in the Bible, the prophecy—my father didn't write that. He has as little choice as I do. Maybe less choice."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you I'd bring you with me, Mark."

"And I said no."

"I didn't say where I'd bring you."

"Hell, I figured. To rule."

"Something like that, I guess." Damien paused, as if summoning his courage. "But what if I brought you with me, and just… left?"

"To go where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Wouldn't they come after you? Buher and Neff and the rest?"

"I might be able to fix that."

"And what would we do?"

"We'd _live._ "

"Somehow I don't think it would be that easy, Damien."

"Hey, I brought you back from the dead. 'Not easy' is kind of my thing." He mussed Mark's hair. "Should we get up now? Get dressed and go out somewhere?"

"It's cold out there." Mark snuggled closer to Damien. "I like it here. You're so warm—like a human space heater."

"You're basking in hellfire, you know that, right?"

Mark was about to answer when the bedroom door flew open. Both boys sat up instinctively, pulling the bed covers into place to protect modesty. Mark couldn't tell if Damien was concerned about being caught in an obviously sexual situation with him, or if he was just startled and annoyed by the intrusion.

Sergeant Neff stopped at the door, an expression of disgust coloring his face as he realized what he was seeing. "So it's true," he said tightly. "He has revived you."

"How did you know?" asked Mark.

"Did you think we paid a nurse to ignore a locked door?" said Neff.

"She called you?"

"She called Buher." Neff looked to Damien. "Have you gotten enough of what you wanted?"

"Is it what I wanted that troubles you?" asked Damien, "Or is it merely that I wanted anything for myself?"

"You can have anything on Earth that you want," said Neff.

Damien raised an eyebrow. "It just happened that what I wanted wasn't on Earth any longer. I fixed that."

"Put some clothes on and come downstairs.”

***

"Are you threatening me?" asked Damien.

Neff stood, resolute, before the fireplace. He glared at the two boys, now dressed, seated on the couch before him. "Call it what you like. I have a mission, Damien. So do you. You may have decided to abandon yours for some trivial dalliance—"

"I've decided to be happy," said Damien, rising. Neff was not a tall man, but he had once dwarfed Mark's cousin. Damien had grown perhaps three inches in the time he and Mark had been apart, closing the height gap. "My father chose to play the Nazarene's games. I did not."

"You were created to play these 'games,' as you call them. Your life doesn't belong to you, any more than mine belongs to me."

"Then why do you live it?" wondered Damien.

Neff stepped close and spoke quietly. "Because I pledged my loyalty to your father. I live to serve."

"And, in return, he will deliver others to serve you."

"That is up to him," said Neff. "It's not my place to question, nor is it yours."

"No?" asked Damien. "I am his living embodiment on Earth."

"You're doing a poor job of representing him, as far as I can see."

"And as far as I can see," said Damien, raising his voice, "a lot of supposed Satanists are putting forth a lot of effort to support a plan written by the enemy. I think it's a wasted effort."

Damien turned away from Neff and came to stand before Mark, looking at him, his face unreadable.

Neff kept his voice low, but his tone was murderous. "This is not going to go well, this thing you're doing. I can't hurt him," he jerked his chin at Mark, "but I'd gladly kill him to get you back on the right track."

Damien snapped his head in Neff's direction. His eyes rolled slightly upward in a chillingly familiar fashion. Mark had seen it before. Damien was marshaling his diabolical powers. "I've a mind to kill you just for thinking that."

Neff, never intimidated, stepped forward. "Perhaps you'd better. If you don't, if you persist with this madness, I will do everything in my power to bring you back to your father's fold. I can't hurt either of you physically, and I know there's no one else you care about Damien. But what about you?" He looked to Mark. "Surely there are people you care about? Family? Friends? How would you feel if they suffered and died in your name? How would you feel if I brought death to a city, in the name of the love of Mark and Damien Thorn?"

Neff's arm shot forward and seized Mark's shirt collar, pulling him roughly off the couch. "I wonder, can an invulnerable boy hurt himself? Would you take your own life, if it were the only way to save millions? How much is your life worth, Mark Thorn?"

"Stop it!" Damien shrieked. With both hands, he pried Neff's fingers from Mark and then drove his shoulder against the man to push him away.

Neff stumbled, caught himself, then stood in a crouch, watching Damien with a feral smile. "I'll never stop, Damien. None of us will. You'll have to kill me to get a moment's peace, and it will only be a moment. There is no escape for you. Keep Mark as your slave if you like, but you serve our master. You always will."

Damien raised his chin, his eyes rolling back again.

Neff laughed in his face.

And then Neff's face began to melt.

***

Damien strode into the office of the C.E.O. of Thorn industries. No one challenged him, of course. Buher could be meeting with the President of the United States, and no one would question Damien's right to enter the office.

Buher looked up from the report he was studying, his face expressionless. "Neff came to see you?" he asked.

"He did," said Damien. He took the offered chair graciously.

"And?"

"He made me see that it's time for me to put away childish things."

Buher nodded. "A pity you didn't come to that conclusion before you risked your life to bring back your cousin."

"Perhaps. But you see, he gave me what I needed. He confessed his loyalty to me, despite everything that's happened. That proves to me that I can manipulate anyone to do my bidding. I needed to know that. At any rate, I eliminated an enemy."

"True enough. Shockford had to die. What did you do with Mark?"

"I sent him away. I set up a false identity for him. I deposited a generous amount in a bank account. He'll live comfortably, for as long as any of them will."

"Them?"

"Those who don't see the wisdom of serving my father."

"Where is Mark?"

"I promised him complete anonymity," said Damien. He made his expression sharp. "And I'm firm on this point, Buher. No one is to look for him. No one is to ask questions. I don't want to be perceived as having made mistakes. I will take any step I need to to prevent that. Only you and I will be aware of this. Is that understood?"

"What about Neff?"

"Neff is dead. He had outlived his usefulness to me."

Buher opened his mouth but did not speak.

"Problem?" asked Damien.

"I—I mean—don't you think you should have consulted—?"

Damien straightened and looked scornfully at his guardian. "I do not _consult._ I am going to rule this world, Buher. I am going to face, and defeat, the Nazarene. Did you think I was going to do that by committee?"

Buher actually smiled. "No. I guess I didn't."

"Good. Your realism makes you useful to me. Just don't forget what happens to the useless. Why are you smiling?"

"Because a teacher should be happy to see his pupil grow up."

Damien nodded. "Yes. I've grown up. I'll call you if I need you, Buher. Keep up the good work."

Damien left the office. When he was gone, Paul Buher stopped smiling. A moment later, he called his secretary and asked her to contact maintenance. Something was wrong with the heat in his office.

Yes. That was why he was shivering.

***

"Did he buy it?" asked Mark.

Damien was barely in the door. "Of course. Watch what you say. Little pitchers have big ears." He nodded at the third figure, seated in the family room, just beyond an open door.

This third figure stood and joined them. "Girls like my ears," he said. "And my other parts as well." He stepped past Mark and approached Damien. Side by side, Mark only knew the difference between the two of them because he knew which Damien had just walked in the door.

That Damien, the Damien who had just visited Buher—"his" Damien—turned to his twin. "Mark and I are going to leave now. Do you understand your instructions?"

"I do. But what I don't understand—"

"What you don't understand, you don't _need_ to understand," said Damien. "From here on out, you are Damien Thorn, heir to Thorn Industries, soon to be ruler of this miserable world. I give it all to you. I promise you, I won't be back to claim it again. Never mention us, and we'll never bother you."

"I suppose that's fair." The second Damien shook his head. "I can't imagine why you'd give it all up, though."

Damien took Mark's hand and squeezed it. "You'd have to be human to understand. You're not human any longer."

"I'm not," the doppelganger agreed.

The two Damiens shook hands, and Mark and the real Damien picked up their suitcases and left the House of Thorn, never to return.

"Are you sure no one will recognize either of us?" Mark asked.

Damien nodded at a figure clearing snow from the driveway. "Jim," he called out.

Jim the groundskeeper looked up. "Yes, sir, may I help you?"

"I don't know if you remember me," said Damien.

The older man leaned on the handle of his shovel, breathing fog, his face red from the cold. "Can't say that I do, sorry. You're friends of Mr. Damien's from school, I guess?"

"We are," agreed Damien. "We met a while back."

"Sorry, sir. Gettin' old, I guess. Did you need something?"

"Oh, no, only we have a cab coming. I wanted to be sure it wouldn't get in your way when it pulls in."

"Not a problem sir. I'll hurry up and get the entrance clear." He picked up his shovel and started for the gate. "You young men have a good day."

"Thanks," said Damien.

"Good God," said Mark.

"You really need to stop using that expression."

"Sorry. But Jim's known me all my life, and you since you were, like, five."

"We don't look the same to any of them any longer. Buher will still know us, and Murray, and a few others. But no one else will. And we'll make sure those who can recognize us never get the chance."

"And Neff's really just gone?"

Damien nodded. "As gone as the soul that used to inhabit your new body. I turned Neff's body into a twin of mine, just as I reshaped yours into your old one." Damien stopped, smirked, took a chance and kissed Mark quickly on the lips. "Your old, beautiful one."

"Knock it off," said Mark. "Someone will see."

"Someone will see two random boys they've never seen before, kissing. So what?"

"So, we might get the shit beat out of us. Most people don't like gay boys, you know."

"You're a gay boy, and I like you."

"I'm not gay. I'm just under the spell of the Antichrist."

"Not anymore. _He's_ the Antichrist now. When I shared my soul to bring him to life, I gave him everything but my last, human spark of life. And a few memories. He doesn't remember loving you. He doesn't remember bringing you back. He doesn't remember—"

"The weird, kinky fucking?"

"The hot, passionate lovemaking."

The cab arrived, and Damien and Mark got in. "O'Hare, please," said Damien. He settled back and placed a hand surreptitiously on Mark's thigh, under his overcoat.

"At least wait till we get on the plane," whispered Mark.

"Oh, yeah, I've always wanted to join the Mile High Club."

"Perv. Where are we going, anyway?"

Damien looked out the window, watching his home of these last many years—and all of his past life—vanish from sight.

He smiled at Mark. "To live."

***

Mikonos was the island of dreams, for some, anyway. It was a place filled with beaches and beach parties, rich men and women, boys and girls, playing in the sun, sand and surf. It was a party spot by night, and, by day, a place of gentle waves and silver days. Best of all, it was a place where no one paid too much attention to what the neighbors were doing.

No one on Mikonos paid too much attention to the Richardson boys, Mark and Damien. They were ex-pat Americans—or was it Brits?—who kept to themselves, unless they were hosting amazing parties where, naturally, they had their pick of partners for the evening. Rumor had it that Mark had romanced an aging but still-vital Jackie Onassis. Or had that been Damien?

No one knew. No one cared. No one really talked too much about the Richardson boys, except to say how fine was their hospitality, or how perfect were their looks. Occasionally, someone noticed that Mark was not quite as laid back as his brother. Things worried him sometimes.

Today, for instance, a worried frown creased his beautiful face, as he strode, unashamedly nude, across the beach, carrying a newspaper. He made quickly for his brother, Damien, equally nude, in the company of a nude young lady. _Another_ nude young lady.

"Did you see this?" asked Mark, handing Damien the folded paper.

Damien was blond now, like Mark. A waste of effort, really, since neither of them looked like themselves to any outsider, and a dye job would not fool Satan's followers. But Damien seemed to want to look different to himself. Mark had to admit that the color suited him.

Stretched out in a beach chair, Damien did not open his eyes. "I'm not seeing anything but paradise right now. This is Helena by the way."

Helena, busy at her labors, nonetheless attempted to greet Mark.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Darling," Damien told her.

Mark flipped the paper to show the headline. "Someone blew up the Aswan Dam. Fifty thousand Egyptians are dead. They don't know if it was Israel, or the Nubian Liberation Front—"

"It doesn't concern us, Mark."

"But I'm certain _he's_ behind it." At Damien's sharp, warning glance he added, "Your— _associate._ "

Damien relaxed again. "No doubt he is. And I bet he's mobilizing his forces to offer aid to the afflicted, and there are camera crews everywhere."

Mark shook his head. "You think too much like him. It scares me."

Damien opened his eyes—sea green in the Mediterranean sunlight. "Don't be afraid of me, Mark. Never be afraid." His eyes pierced Mark's very soul, the soul they shared, pleading.

"I'm not afraid of you, Damien, I just—"

"Ow! Helena, Darling, be careful!"

"I'm sorry," said the girl, "it's just that you're so—"

Damien patted her head. "It's all right. I tell you what: Mark will show you how this is done, and you can see to him."

"Damien," said Mark, trying to sound firm, but finding himself laughing nonetheless.

Damien smiled. "Come on, brother. Don't tell me you're finally tired of me."

Mark gave in and knelt. "I'm never tired of you."

Damien caressed his hair. "Don't talk with your mouth full."

Some time later, Helena gone in search of dinner, Mark reclined against Damien's knees, staring out at the waves, but not seeing them.

"Are you still brooding?" Damien asked him.

"Can we ignore the world forever?"

"I intend to try. The world has never treated us very well."

"Things are bad, Damien. I can't help but think about the prophecies."

Damien reached over Mark's shoulder, took his hand, and interlaced their fingers. He gave a reassuring squeeze. "They don't concern us any longer."

Mark grabbed Damien's hand in both of his and kissed it. "If Armageddon comes, if the world ends...I mean...If we die, where will we go, you and I?"

Damien shrugged. "Wherever it is, we'll be together."

Damien Thorn closed his eyes.

And the piper dreamed again.

END

_And the piper dreams  
In rings of misty white   
Knowing in his sleep   
Dreams only keep thru the night.   
  
As The piper dreams   
Pretending to perceive   
Lending dreams to those   
Who dare suppose they'd believe.   
  
Believe in gentle waves and silver days   
And love that fills the air   
A world where dreams come true   
The way they do in memories.   
  
Lovely make believe   
That reappears somehow   
When every now and then   
The piper dreams again._

"The Piper Dreams" – Lyrics by Jerry Goldsmith, from his original soundtrack for _The Omen_ (1976)


End file.
